


Ixion and Sisyphus

by jockohomo



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Romance, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vignette, alternately titled: danglars learn empathy challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 09:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Danglars wakes up late one night to find a letter and an old acquaintance at his door.





	Ixion and Sisyphus

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest thing i've ever written! by more than twice! it's been in progress for months! wow!
> 
> content warnings for ableism, physical abuse (although it isn't graphic or overly violent and results more from lack of understanding and poor judgement than actual malicious intent), mentions of suicide and general death, bad parenting, implied incest (regarding andrea and eugénie), eating issues, self-harm, gore and cannibalism (during a dream sequence), questions about consent (although there absolutely isn't any non-con here and no actual sexual content, either), and implied homophobia. i promise this isn't as dark or edgy as it sounds. seriously.

Danglars is awakened by a knock at his door.

It is dark, far too dark for him to make out what time it is, but it surely must be well past midnight, somewhere creeping into the quiet hours of the morning. Over the past couple months or so living in solidarity, he has adjusted himself to jolting awake, sweaty and petrified, before the sun has risen, to silencing his breath at every bump in the night, and it is lucky, in a grim way, that the cottage he was able to purchase with some of his remaining savings is small enough for him to survey at a moment’s notice if he feels the need to comfort himself.

Being pulled back to the world forcibly, by _someone else_ , is quite another matter, however, and not a welcome one. The work he has found for himself does require that he be called upon sometimes, but never during the dead of night — and besides, his home (if it can be called that — it feels more like grave most days) is situated a ways out from the rest of the village; his nearest neighbors are barely visible through the sparsely populated trees between them. He can hardly imagine that anyone would come visit him at this hour for any reason at all proximal to _benign_. 

He can imagine several _other_ reasons, though. It has not been long since he was kidnapped by bandits while fleeing the country, not so long that he has forgotten it. 

Or forgotten Edmond Dantès.

His body stiffens and, for a moment, Danglars entertains a desperate hope that maybe he imagined the noise. Perhaps it was only a fragment of some recently-departed dream. His fingers clutch around the blanket and he tugs it tightly to his body.

A moment passes. There’s another knock, a rustling, and then what he thinks is the sound of footsteps retreating slowly down the sorry excuse for a road leading out of the village. His heart nearly leaps out of his throat.

He is not all too enthusiastic to rouse himself to check; rather, he has half a mind to bolt for the back door and flee to the home of some unfortunate neighbor. But, then, surely any competent malefactor will be waiting there; surely any _well-prepared_ malefactor will not hesitate to break through one way or another. If the worst is what he’s facing, then his fate can only be prolonged, not avoided. 

Still, it takes a few minutes for Danglars to motivate himself to rise. He lights a candle — a glance to the clock tells him that it’s somewhere around three in the morning — and, legs shaking, shoulder pressed against the wall, he makes his way gingerly towards the door. His stomach does flips.

He is standing in his own open doorway, shuddering against the frigid air, and there is an unconscious man and a letter on the ground. 

_My dearest friend,_

_I hope you can forgive me for neglecting to address you by your name — however, I have reason to believe that none of the people living in this village are aware of it, and so I am taking a liberty in that respect. I would have appeared to you in person, but I believe I am correct in my assumption that this outcome is in better favor of your health and demeanor._

_You will recall, I hope, what we discussed over dinner during our previous meeting. In particular, I would like to reference the status of one of our mutual acquaintances. You will recall that after a series of tragedies befell his family and he was made aware of his relationship with Monsieur Benedetto, he was taken into custody due to the poor state of his faculties, as well as his admitted crimes. I have assessed the conditions he was forced to live in during this period and found them undesirable. I, however, am not in any position to look after him and am in need of someone to take this role for me. Surely you can see where you stand in this predicament._

_I do not expect that your current income will be enough to provide for an addition to yourself; as such, I will be sending you an allowance every month of which I recommend you use to see to his needs. It will be just enough for this purpose and no more, as I see no reason to otherwise change your current arrangement. Of course, you will keep his health and state of mind in as good quality as can reasonably be expected and will continue to for the foreseeable future. I do not intend to make any further visits in person, but you understand that I will be made aware if the situation takes a course other than the one that I have described. If my presence if required, it shall be gained._

_I have good faith that you will do this serviceably. If you do not, other arrangements can be made for the both of you. Perhaps you would find those more suitable to your tastes. Only two months have passed, after all; surely you can recall that far back._

_Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo._

There is a postscript. It reads:

_It may interest you to know that Monsieur Benedetto, whom I have previously referred to, is in fact the son of your charge, and is currently being held in prison. I have reason to believe that you were once apparently well-acquainted with the mother._

Danglars slumps back against the doorframe and swears under his breath.

* * *

“‘My dearest friend’,” Danglars mutters sarcastically to himself as he glances over the letter for what must be the fiftieth time this week. His tongue burns. “How ill-humored.”

He can hardly hear himself over the racket. The first thing Gérard de Villefort did when his eyes opened — the only thing he has done since then, really — was take up Danglars’ spade and install himself in his backyard, tearing into the earth with erratic shoves and mumbling to the air. From what Danglars can piece together out of this nonsense, the pathetic creature had been doing the same thing at his previous home until he was forced away from it, and someone — the same pensman of that exceedingly blunt letter, Danglars imagines — had promised him that the thing he was searching for had been moved, that he would be brought to its location soon enough. This just so happens to be that location.

The thing Villefort was searching for was his son. He is still searching for it. Something about that makes Danglars feel cold.

(But, really, it was such a blunt letter, wasn’t it? Perhaps the Count found Danglars far enough beneath him to not merit the energy of something more formal. _That_ made his blood boil, even without taking the obvious threat into account.)

He crumples the paper up for what is not the first time and tosses it irritably across the table. It rolls to a stop before it can fall to the floor.

Danglars watches it, mouth twitching, before rising reluctantly to his feet. His bones shift uncomfortably and he steps into the back doorway so that he can properly see the wasteland Villefort is making of his yard.

The former crown prosecutor has only been tethered here for a week, but the image before Danglars has already become something like normalcy. It still stirs a strange, quiet terror in his stomach (and another feeling he can’t quite identify) whenever he sees it, but he is learning to expect the vision nonetheless. Villefort is up to his knees in a rather narrow hole that he is seemingly attempting to widen out with what could only be described as wild abandon, his already tattered apparel now caked with dirt and other bits of debris. He has no belongings to speak of anymore aside from the clothes on his back, but if he’s paying that any mind at all, it isn’t visible from Danglars’ perspective. It is past noon now, and Villefort has been at this ever since Danglars opened the back door this morning and let him rush out. He notes distastefully that this stretch of land is gradually becoming more and more cratered. He’ll have to figure out a productive use for all these holes.

Slowly, almost mechanically, Danglars steps down into the grass and approaches Villefort from behind. The poor madman is hunched over his work, hair disheveled and face glistening, and Danglars can hear the heaviness of his breathing.

“You are not going to find anything here,” he finally comments.

“Surely, surely it will be any day now,” Villefort says, not in response to him. His eyes are empty.

“You have been lied to, M. de Villefort,” Danglars insists. He can feel that this is a losing battle — after all, nothing else has worked so far — but this routine is driving him to distraction. “One of your sons is in prison, and the other is dead. There is nothing for you to find here aside from dirt and rocks.”

“Oh, my son, my child,” comes the mournful response, and Danglars is made aware once more that Villefort does not comprehend his pleas, if he even hears them at all.

He rests a hand firmly on Villefort’s shoulder, remains unacknowledged, and drops it again. A breeze passes between them, sweeping threads of gray over the back of his charge’s neck where it leads to his skull, and Danglars takes a step back. The day is marching by, and he has work to get done if he is to keep a roof over their heads (not that Villefort appreciates the notion enough to make use of it). To hell with Villefort. So long as Monte Cristo is satisfied with his performance, he has no reason to trouble himself with the wretch’s affairs.

Before he can turn fully to depart from Villefort’s side, he is stopped in his tracks by a sudden movement. His eyes follow Villefort as he tosses the spade aside and drops to his knees, chest heaving and hands burying themselves in the dirt. Danglars watches, unmoving, as Villefort attempts to go about his task from this position, as he scrapes his nails through the soil and produces shallow streaks in the earth.

There is something so futile, so meaningless in the motion that Danglars can feel his face begin to burn. He is almost angry at Villefort for daring to make himself ridiculous — Villefort, who was always so trimmed and serious before — and some part of him can’t help but wonder if _this is all there is_. Is this really what he has been condemned to? To tend after some mindless animal, the debased shell of the man he once knew — is this the punishment Edmond Dantès sees fit for him? Will it ever end?

Danglars rolls up his pant legs, lowers himself to his knees (“My son, my son, you cannot imagine how sorry I am,” he hears Villefort muttering, “How I have mourned! How I have wept for you! I am coming, and I promise, I swear to you that I — ”), and slaps the palm of his hand against Villefort’s face.

The man’s head snaps back from the force of the thing (which could not possibly have been that strong, but then, Villefort seems even frailer now than he used to) and an angry flush spreads out on the impact site, a startling blaze of color against the stark white of his skin. His body makes sharp contact with the walls of his own concave, and, for a moment, Danglars thinks he has succeeded.

“Listen to me,” he grunts, rising to his feet with some effort. He can stare down at Villefort more effectively this way; it makes him feel bigger. “There is nothing to be found here. All of your children are far away from this place. Dust yourself off and come inside.”

Slowly, Villefort pushes himself away from the wall of the hole. He does not look at Danglars; he kneels in the dirt and scrapes at the ground with his hands.

Danglars bites his lower lip to stop it from trembling. “Poor idiot.”

A minute later, Villefort begins sobbing, body curled around itself and hands clasped near his chest. He has unearthed a stone. 

* * *

Just as quickly as these behaviors became routine, it also became apparent that they would not be changing anytime soon. Danglars could hope for an improvement in Villefort’s condition, he could pray, he could yell, he could strike the other man as much as he wanted — he _could_ do a lot of things. All of it would be futile; begrudgingly, he realizes this much. It would be a lie to say the thought hasn’t occurred to him to dump Villefort in the woods somewhere, or pack up his own belongings and flee (again), or put the miserable creature out of its misery, but his judgement would no doubt be immediate if he tried that. It has also occurred to him to beat the man for any perceived transgression, to keep him battered and immobile and barely conscious, but of course if he did that his punishment would be the same; besides, if Villefort is burdensome to care for when able-bodied, he would surely be unmanageable when injured.

The real issue is that of keeping him contained. If left to his own devices, Villefort would surely make a mining ground out of not only Danglars’ backyard, but all the land for miles in radius, and Danglars would rather not incur his neighbors’ wrath — would rather not his neighbors be made aware of Villefort’s existence any more than they must be. The wretched thing would dig in its every waking hour if it could help it — and while Danglars will allow it to search the ground more often than not, he cannot allow it to remain ceaseless. After all, Villefort needs to eat, to drink, to sleep even if his hand must be forced in the matter, and Danglars needs to give his yard some damn respite.

He was already well in the habit of keeping his doors locked, windows carefully latched well before the crown prosecutor made his appearance; no lock or latch, of course, could ward off the Count of Monte Cristo, but Danglars could at least find empty solace in it. These days, the matter is less of keeping something out and more of keeping something in. 

Night comes. He bars the doors and the windows as soon as he can wrangle Villefort indoors. He will undo the process the following morning.

The reaction he gets is violent. Villefort makes every attempt to break outside, to slam himself against the door until it falls, but of course he is too weak to manage it and Danglars is careful to keep anything of potential assistance well out of his reach. As soon as he realizes the impossibility of his situation he begins to cry, to scream, to wail. This occurrence is almost nightly, with the exception of the odd evening where Villefort will have tired himself out and fallen unconscious; Danglars has grown to expect it. He has learned to ignore the sobbing.

Tonight is no different. Villefort has long since abandoned his feet in favor of his knees, kneeling on the ground and banging his fists against the door, scratching, clawing, ramming his entire body up against the wooden thing. His voice is growing hoarser, rawer — Danglars can hear the difference. He has been wailing for over an hour now. The end is nowhere in sight.

Danglars has very little money nowadays — he would have had more, really, if he had remained a supercargo all those years ago, and that fact is one he can’t stand — but he manages, every so often, to purchase a bottle or two of cheap wine. It tastes like filth and it isn’t terribly strong, but it does its job. He scrapes a chair across the floor to the opposite window, keeping Villefort in his sights, and sips from the bottle. 

Villefort begs to see his family for hours. Danglars’ chest aches.

* * *

In a streak of good luck — as if _any_ of this can be considered good luck — the weather treated them mercifully for the first brief stretch of Villefort’s stay. It was cold, especially at night, but that was to be expected at that time of year, and often windy, but at least it was fairly _dry_. Danglars shambled together an alternate set of clothes for his companion (for the sake of hygiene if nothing else) and that made it easier to keep things relatively clean; bathing the other man was a task only due to the subject’s attempts to escape, not any actual difficulty in the thing itself.

It does not remain so forever. Their situation lingers, stagnant; the weather does not. Rain sweeps in, and Villefort is outside when it does.

Danglars opens the door and stands at its barrier for minutes on end, shivering against the spray of water and watching Villefort, absorbed as he is in his regular activities. The rain is clearly failing to pierce its way into his consciousness; Villefort is just as hunched as ever, just as desperate, water streaming down his hair and back and collecting around his feet. 

It will be a pain to clean him up once this storm blows over, but it will be an ever bigger pain to drag him indoors, with all the mud and water and slick debris. If Danglars has the resolve to force Villefort inside, he lacks the energy. It’s a pathetic sight, the image of this gaunt, senseless man burying himself in rubble and water, but not one Danglars expects he’ll be able to put an end to.

“Come inside, Gérard,” he calls, raising his voice through the downpour. “You will only serve to catch yourself a cold.”

There’s no response.

Heaving a sigh, Danglars retreats back into the modest building. Finding what he needs takes him only a matter of seconds, and he reappears with a jacket folded over his arm. Reluctantly, Danglars steps forward and the bottom of his shoe squelches against the ground.

He drapes the garment over Villefort’s shoulders. It’s no use to force the thing on him properly, and it will probably only fall off at this rate, but he likes to think it’ll at least help a little bit.

_The thing is far too big for him. He looks like a child._

Danglars swallows and returns indoors.

* * *

Villefort’s condition is concerning for a whole myriad of reasons. Of course it is inconvenient; of course it is difficult to hide; of course it is disheartening, at least a little, for Danglars to see someone he used to quite like (for one reason or another) reduced to a sobbing husk of a man. More than anything, though, it strikes a particular sort of fear into him. 

He wonders if maybe — just maybe — Monte Cristo intended this as a _warning_. Danglars escaped easily compared to his cohorts; he still has some money left, still has his mind, his life. For how long? There was no explanation provided as to why the Count wanted _Danglars_ to take care of this business for him, there still _is_ none, and what Danglars does not know, he will _conjure_ for himself. The more he wonders, the more convinced he becomes. Villefort is a warning. This is what will become of Danglars, someday.

Danglars looks at Villefort sometimes and wonders how the thing has not killed itself; he certainly would, if their situations were reversed. The resulting implication is not a comforting one.

Yes, the entire affair is a depressing one, and thinking of it kills Danglars’ nerves (unfortunately, it plays a significant enough role in his life that he has to think of it a good deal). It is just as frustrating, however, as it is depressing, because he is utterly _helpless_. He is helpless to whatever fate Dantès has planned out for him, helpless to his own circumstance, helpless even to Villefort’s whims — Villefort, who is himself defined by helplessness, nowadays. After all, what can Danglars possibly do to restrain him when Villefort spends his every night screaming and beating on the door? When the man refuses to so much as acknowledge Danglars in all his mad gaspings? When he takes every opportunity to reign destruction down upon his own body?

The question is a rhetorical one, but Danglars doesn’t have the time for literary devices. He doesn’t feel guilty enough to be kept awake at night, but Villefort seems to think that his own guilt will be enough for the both of them, if only he can wail about it loudly enough.

And so Danglars tries his hand at a solution. 

He used to only have one chair in the cottage; recently, he has purchased a second. It came for as cheap as possible, and its appearance reflects that fact — the wood is chipped to such a degree that it seems to be peeling, the legs rock if pressure is applied too much in one area, it sags down in the middle. Danglars never uses it if he can help it, but he did buy it for a reason; these days, he does not buy _anything_ without a reason. It was for this same reason that he also purchased a generous supply of rope.

Villefort is knelt on the cold wood, slamming his shoulder against the cottage’s back door. His voice has slowly begun to crescendo and the sound of it permeates throughout the structure, shaking the foundations, shaking the air, shaking Danglars in a very particular place. He is sobbing, but then, what else is new? If Danglars could not force himself to tolerate shrieks and screams, he would have snapped some time ago. Villefort’s fingernails begin to scrape over his opposite wrist — slowly, at first, then less and less so — and yet he continues with the ruckus. Danglars _can_ tolerate it, but that does not mean he will not seek alternatives if he must.

“Gérard, my boy,” he sighs, twirling a bit of rope around his forefinger, “you really must stop doing that.”

(Nothing changes, of course.)

Danglars watches him for another moment, wishing that it would all _stop_ , just this once, but of course it does not stop, so he rises to his feet and approaches Villefort.

He’s stronger than the older man (who also happens to be of an extremely light weight), but he makes quick work of the task nevertheless because the violence of it tires him. His hands find their holds and he seizes Villefort in a single swift motion, pulling his arms around him, and of course Villefort puts up a fight, of course he kicks and screams and jerks his head (his eyes are still empty, his eyes are always empty) but even if he has the lack of restraint unique that comes with a lack of reason, he is also terribly frail. Danglars steels himself and wrestles Villefort onto the chair.

Within the minute, the former crown prosecutor is affixed to the chair, a criminal awaiting execution. His limbs twitch a bit too much against the ropes, so Danglars adds more restraints, pulls them tighter.

“There,” Danglars spits out, drawing himself up and wiping the sweat from his brow. “You cannot hurt much of anything like this, can you?”

He thought the noise was bad before; now, it is unbearable. There is no point of straining against his bindings but Villefort shows no awareness of this and his extremities push helplessly and he _wails_. He wails with no regard for his own breathing, he wails louder than anything Danglars has heard before, as if he’s trying to break his vocal chords, as if he _wants_ to be rendered mute, and he does not stop. His voice grows hoarse and scrapes through the air, alike to a wounded animal in desperation and terror but different in the simple, disturbing fact that Villefort seems utterly unable to comprehend his own pain.

The night carries on and he does not stop. Danglars sits on the edge of his bed and watches the window, wondering if the noise will summon Monte Cristo from the woods.

* * *

There is a change at some point. Danglars is not sure of what exactly triggered it, but he can observe the results. What used to be constant behaviors became punctuated. Where there was only sobbing and digging and scratching, there is now something else in addition.

Danglars is sewing together a hole some distant neighbor has managed to rip in their pant leg when he becomes very suddenly aware of a misplaced silence. Villefort is rarely silent even in his sleep nowadays, and a twisting in his stomach tells Danglars that something is _very off_. His fingers twitch nervously against the needle and he shoots an anxious glance to the other end of the house.

“Gérard?” he calls over the stillness. His eyes fall on the other man’s form to find that he has not moved from the spot he last saw him, but now he is not crying; Villefort’s legs are stretched out in front of him against the floor and his head is tilted back, eyes seemingly open. 

Danglars’ spine crawls and he rises to his feet, crossing to stand over his companion. The thing is breathing, at least, and that is a good sign, but his eyes are half-lidded, vacant as ever, fixed on some unseen point above them. His pallor is no worse than usual and he doesn’t otherwise appear _sick_ ; still, Danglars cannot shake the creeping feeling that something is wrong.

(He glances up to the ceiling. There’s nothing there.)

“Gérard?” he repeats, quieter this time. He receives no response.

Danglars retreats back to his work, and Villefort has started to cry again by the time he starts cooking dinner.

* * *

Months pass. Winter turns to spring. It begins to rain more frequently. Villefort spends more and more time in this silent, unresponsive state, but otherwise he is stagnant, a fixture in Danglars’ ruined garden. He becomes a part of the greenery. Danglars tends to him as best as he can and accepts, slowly, that Gérard will never respond to his name again, or judge another creature, or outlive another family member. He supposes that it is sad, but he cannot understand the tragedy of Villefort’s life when its protagonist (or perhaps an antagonist) is left empty. He pities Villefort as the gravedigger pities the corpse, and he mourns his own misfortune instead. He wonders when Monte Cristo will arrive again. He wonders how many more springs he has left before he is no longer cognizant of them.

He wonders a lot of things.

A storm sweeps its way into the town. Days ago it was sunny, but now the streets are dark and muddied, the air thick and claustrophobic. Danglars stays home as much as he possibly can but of course he must depart to buy food, materials, whatever odds and ends he’s woken up to find missing, and he watches the people dart about like ants through the downpour. By that logic, he is also an ant, but he chooses to ignore that part.

He tries to keep the inside of the cottage free of it; he stamps the grass from his boots at the doorway, locks Villefort inside as often as possible — which seems to be more often, nowadays, now that he retreats from his body for hours at a time. The idea of Villefort out there during a storm, shoveling futilely at the mud while the thunder falls around him, bothers Danglars in a way he can’t quite place, too, gives him another reason to keep the man indoors. The resolve only stretches so far, however; he lets Villefort outside, after the other man begins to kick up a fit, on a lighter day. He leans against the doorframe at first, wiping sprays of water from his face every five seconds and squinting out into the dusk-like noon, and then buries himself within his home and allows Villefort to do as he pleases for a while.

An hour passes and he hears two heavy thuds. Someone has stepped in through the backdoor. 

Danglars stands, whirls around clumsily and begins to search the immediate vicinity for some weapon he can use if things get rough. What he sees is Villefort.

His front is cast faintly alit by the candle Danglars set out to illuminate his work through the darkening storm, but his face is out of sight, head bowed and obscured by clumps of drenched hair. The fabric around him has been thoroughly soaked through, clinging to his ragged, thin body like the skin pulled over his bones, illustrating every angle, every harsh line and curve of sinew and tendon, and his torso is painfully bent forward as if he is struggling under the brunt of some enormous weight. Whatever it is, it is too much for him to bear alone; his forearm is raised to press, exhausted, against the doorframe. 

Lightning strikes somewhere behind him, momentarily backlighting him and causing his body to shadow. The entire cottage booms a second later. Danglars shudders and stares.

“Gérard?” he says, finally, in something like a whisper.

Villefort raises his head to look at him and Danglars sees something in those eyes that he hasn’t seen before.

“I am not going to find him, am I?”

Danglars remains fixed to the spot at first, gaping dumbly at the man before him; his hands twitch at his sides and in a partial state of stock, he mumbles, “Of course not.” His blinks a few times, checks himself to make sure he hasn’t stopped breathing. His throat is dry, but he repeats himself. “Of course not. Your son was never here in the first place. I have been trying to tell you as much for some time now, but you…”

His voice trails off because Villefort never seemed to comprehend his presence, not before today, but now here he is — here he _is_. Villefort looks like shit — he’s torn up and drenched and muddy and suddenly Danglars can recognize the look in his eyes, he can see the despair there, can feel the horror hanging palpably in the air — but for the first time in what feels like ages, for the first time in this life, he could see a trace of intelligence there, some semblance of a human soul. He shivers.

“Come inside,” he says, finally, making his way hurriedly to the door. He hesitates and then presses his hand to Villefort’s arm. “And dry yourself off, Gérard. You look like something the cat dragged it.”

He pats him on the back and Villefort stumbles forward into the house like a man in a daze; Danglars takes the opportunity to lock the door in case this sudden shift turns out to only be the eye of the hurricane that is Gérard de Villefort. He slides a glance over his shoulder to find Villefort pacing in circles around the shredded brown chaise, just as sopping wet as before.

Danglars pulls a raggedy towel from his dresser, rocking the tiny, stuck together wooden thing in the process. He approaches Villefort tiredly and presses it to his side.

“I told you to dry yourself off.”

Villefort’s head shakes slowly, unsurely, and his eyebrows draw themselves together. Suddenly, Danglars (still holding the towel) finds himself fixed in the crosshairs of that piercing, mournful gaze.

“Is he dead?” Villefort whispers. “My son — Benedetto — is he dead? Has he, too, been condemned because of me?”

“Keep ahold of your questions for now.” Danglars stutters, fumbles with his words, repeats his consonants too many times. His heart is throbbing in his chest and he takes it upon himself to dry Villefort off, rubbing the towel over his shoulders and arms. He bites his lip. “And allow me to get you out of that shirt.”

Villefort doesn’t put up much of a fight, luckily, doesn’t kick or scream or pull away. His eyes bore holes in the wood flooring and his body trembles under Danglars’ hands, but he does not protest, does not even speak as he is stripped down to his undergarments and wrapped in the thinned, worn towel and pulled down onto the chaise. Danglars seats himself next to him and watches the way Villefort’s pale, bruised chest rises and falls in shaky gasps.

“Tell me,” the man mutters finally, “tell me, please. Answer my question. Is my son dead? Has Benedetto been condemned to death?”

“I…” Danglars frowns. “Not as far as I know. Last I was made aware of, he was in prison.”

Villefort rises abruptly to his feet, legs trembling precariously, and knocks Danglars back in the progress. His head jerks from side to side, staring wildly about the room like some caged animal, and Danglars clutches at the shredded cushions. Villefort’s fingers jerk and he says, almost shouts, “I must go visit him. I must see him.”

He lurches toward the front door unsteadily, balancing only precariously on his feet as if he could take a misstep and fall at any moment. That’s an outcome better avoided so Danglars fumbles momentarily and rises to his feet, lunging at Villefort and clenching his fist around the man’s thin arm in a vice-like hold.

“Impossible!” he exclaims, bewildered enough to seem angry without truly being so. “ _Visit him_ , you say! I tell you, that is impossible.”

“I _must_ ,” Villefort insists. He writhes frantically, attempting to yank himself frm Danglars’ clutches with erratic, twitching movements, and only succeeds in unbalancing himself.

Danglars wraps an arm under Villefort’s waist before he can fall and pulls his arm closer. Their faces are alarmingly close and he can see the panic there — he can see it, it’s the only thing to bring light to Villefort’s eyes since he’s arrived here. His lips twitch and he presses, “He is too far away, Gérard. Why, you have no idea where you are, do you? You are not in France, I will tell you that much. We have no money — not enough, certainly, to travel to Paris, and you are in no shape to travel, in any case. In any case! Do you have any recollection of the circumstances under which you came to be here? Do you remember where you lodged before? In all likelihood, they are looking for you, or at least will notice you if you reenter Paris — certainly if you seek out that man in his cell. You will be dragged away. Is that what you want?”

“What does it matter?” Villefort flails uselessly in his caretaker’s arms, strains his limbs and pushes feebly back. “I will wander on foot for years if need be! I will return to prison! They may put me to death if they please!” His voice cracks painfully. “Let me go!”

Danglars grimaces and forcibly seats Villefort on the chaise. He positions himself carefully between him and the door. “I cannot allow that. You are not thinking straight, Gérard. Give yourself some time and you will recover your senses.”

_Or else you will forget this ever happened. Either is manageable._

The sentiment does not reach; Villefort presses his palms down against the rough cushioning and grits his teeth together. His eyes meet Danglars’ and widen like those of a cornered animal, and his trembling voice raises until it is almost shrill. “What right do you have to command me? What right do you have to keep me confined here — what could you possibly know about my interests? He is the only family I have! It is my own fault that he became the person he is! I abandoned him once — I cannot abandon him again! Not when I — ”

Danglars cracks his hand against Villefort’s cheek.

His skin is cold to the touch and Danglars can feel the hollowness of the area as Villefort’s head snaps back. The air stalls and first there is no reaction, no sound other than the downpour outside, just scarlet blossoming out over the alabaster of Villefort’s face; Danglars wonders if it will be like the last time, if he will remain unresponsive.

It is not like the last time. Villefort blinks once and then he doubles over himself and digs his nails into his scalp and weeps.

Danglars exhales.

* * *

Villefort becomes ghost-like after that. He confines himself to silence, to clipped movements and shallow breathing, to eyes trained on the unfinished flooring, to torn fingernails. His existence becomes unpronounced and small. Danglars can see some intelligence there now, can visualize the thought process behind every punctuated movement if he watches for long enough, but his every attempt to rouse any conversation from the other man is met with failure. Days pass and he stops trying. Days pass and he begins to visualize Villefort as less of a person — less, even, of a madman — and more of a small animal, a quiet, skittish thing, unthreatening but deprived of humanity nonetheless and terrified of anything greater than it. 

Days pass and that, apparently, is enough for Villefort to gather up his courage.

The rain has cleared and Danglars works by daylight at the table, threads and stitches and cuts at the fabrics before him until they resemble something wearable. He is not particularly good, but there is no tailor to be had until the next town over, which is an intolerable distance for anyone with the poor fortune to be living on this side of nowhere; the skills that he picked up from Caderousse all those years ago are enough to get by, and he thinks that he is getting better. There is no joy to be had in it, but joy is a commodity he cannot afford, nowadays. His hands have long since become rough.

“Danglars,” Villefort breathes.

At first, he is sure he imagined it; after days of silence, there is no reason for it to be broken now. He only raises his head after another minute passes and he hears it again.

“Did you say something, Gérard?” he asks tiredly and does not expect an answer.

Villefort nods. 

“W-well!” Danglars raises his eyebrows and contemplates setting his tools down. (He doesn’t.) “Are you in need of something, my boy?”

(He isn’t sure why or when he began referring to Villefort that way, but the change occurred at some point, and he can hardly bother himself to stop now.)

Villefort tilts his head up almost imperceptibly from his seat in the corner — it cannot be very comfortable down there on the floor, Danglars imagines, but so long as the boy isn’t hurting himself he won’t make an issue of it — and fixes his gaze out the window. “Where are we?”

Danglars pauses for a moment and then laughs drily. “Nowhere we can depart from with much ease.”

“Where?”

“I fail to see how it benefits you any to be told that.”

Silence envelops them again for a minute. Then Villefort lifts his voice out of a whisper to a quiet, shaking murmur and says, “I would like to know.”

Danglars pauses, looks at Villefort skeptically, and then looks back to his work. “Belgium.”

They lapse into silence again and he almost thinks that’s the end of the conversation, but then Villefort shifts to face him. “Why?”

Danglars clears his throat. “Why what?”

“Why are… Why are we … here?”

“Surely you can remember the circumstances of your own arrival.”

A frown pulls at Villefort’s lips, thinning into a taut line. “And you?”

Danglars’ hand slips and a jagged line is ripped through his cloth. “Misfortune can befall anyone,” he grumbles.

* * *

It does not take long for Danglars to notice that Villefort never really sleeps. Before, when he was still constantly engaged in the backyard, the creature only fell unconscious when physically forced; even now, now that he does little other than sit in the corner and pace the room and weep into his hands and fix Danglars in that mournful, anxious gaze, he can hardly be observed to sleep. The shadows around his eyes and their drooping lids deepen and spread, but even when Danglars coerces him into lying down on the chaise (or even the bed, when he is worried enough) he tosses and turns and whimpers into the night. Danglars sacrifices the only blanket in the cottage to him as a routine every evening; it does not help. His own sleeping habits are bad enough, but even he can recognize a problem when he sees it.

The mounted clock strikes midnight and Danglars sits upright in his bed. Villefort, evidently, has been in the same position for some time. He sighs.

“Gérard.”

The man in question shudders and glances over to him.

“It is awfully cold tonight,” he states, matter-of-factly to mask the dryness in his mouth, “and you look frigid. Come here, and bring the blanket with you. Perhaps you will sleep better.”

Villefort stares at him for a few moments, eyes slowly widening, and then he struggles to speak. Voice a high whimper, he begins, “I could not possibly — well, rather, I — I d-do not wish to … impose.”

“Bah!” Danglars waves his hand dismissively and tries to ignore the way his heart leaps into his throat. “Think back on the past few months, my boy. It is quite impossible for you to impose on me. You are free to do as you wish, but if I minded it, I would not have suggested it.”

There’s an awkward sort of still air, a hanging eye contact, that lingers between them for a beat before Danglars shrugs his shoulders and lies back down on the bed. He closes his eyes, but his breathing does not slow.

A few minutes later, he is suddenly aware of a pressure being applied to the mattress beside him and a body pressing lightly against him on the narrow surface of the bed. He hardly needs to open his eyes to see who it is, and he does not ask questions. 

Danglars falls asleep that night. When he wakes up the next morning, Villefort is pulled up against his chest, body relaxed in what might, for all he knows, be the first time ever. The arrangement becomes a permanent one.

* * *

Edmond Dantès, in his letter, mentioned a certain tragedy that had befallen a man of Danglars’ acquaintance. Naturally, this pertained to Villefort. Danglars was aware of it as it was happening — he heard of the death of the Marquis de Saint-Méran, then the Marquise, then that servant, then poor Valentine — but the rest he was made aware of after his release, when dining in a partial daze with his former captor. He knows now of the events that transpired after he fled, of the public revelation of Benedetto’s true lineage, of the murder-suicide of Héloïse de Villefort and her unfortunate son. The entire affair is sickening at its core and Danglars does everything within his power not to think about it.

He also does everything within his power not to mention the events to Gérard, for an entirely different reason. He hears the poor soul mumbling to himself on occasion, stuttering apologies and begging for forgiveness to some invisible phantom. The appearance of whatever Gérard is facing must change from time to time because Danglars will on occasion hear a whispered name, a sobbed string of syllables; it is always a family member. Noirtier, Renée, Héloïse, Benedetto, Valentine, Edouard — each one of them makes a showing every so often. Hermine flickers through, rarely, and Danglars isn’t sure quite how he feels about that. 

One day he realizes that Benedetto and Eugénie are half-siblings, and he feels vaguely ill until he wakes up the next morning. 

Danglars does not consider his family _his family_ anymore. His marriage is annulled in any sense with active bearing on his life; his daughter, too, has escaped from his mind as much as she has his home. Neither woman has reason to occupy his thoughts now, other than to serve as a painful reminder of his own fall from glory. There is only one person left of any worth to him now.

He curses that one person for his curiosity.

“Your family,” Gérard says suddenly, with that trembling, barely audible voice of his, with gaping pauses between every word, “what happened to them?”

“Why does it matter?” Danglars asks, without taking time to consider his reply. 

“They — they are your _family_.”

Danglars folds a finished blouse over his arm. “And?”

Villefort gives him a stricken look before turning away from him and pulling his knees up to his chest.

* * *

“My boy,” Danglars sighs, leaning forward towards the other man, “you have got to eat at _some_ point.”

Gérard glances up to him, fists clenched at the edge of the table, and makes a miserable little whimpering noise. 

“I will not allow it to be seen to that you _starve_.”

“I…” Gérard stares down at his plate (it’s nothing outstanding, just bread and vegetables). His chest briefly convulses, as if threatening to toss bile out over the dish, and he swallows, thick and apprehensive. Perhaps he is preparing for an argument — he attempted to argue over his dinner before, once, and it was utterly pathetic — but whatever response he is formulating seems to die in his throat. Instead, he gazes brokenly at Danglars from across the table.

“Are you ready to cooperate, child?” he prods, with mounting irritation. 

Gérard sighs and opens his mouth.

* * *

The days Gérard goes without eating are not the only frequent habits of his that cause Danglars concern, not the only things causing Danglars to worry. His expectations are low and he knows that he hovers, he frets, he watches anxiously whenever his charge turns his head — but no matter how much he watches, he does not manage to catch the concern that Villefort reciprocates, does not notice how much the former prosecutor detests his confined role as an invalid. He does not notice it, and Gérard does not speak of it, and so the topic remains left alone.

Danglars does notice some things, though, primarily the bad things — not because he’s pessimistic (although he is pessimistic, nowadays), but because he knows he cannot afford _not_ to miss them, be it due to the Count’s threats or something that he insists remains unnamed. He notices the motions that Gérard picks up when he is scared, or remorseful, or frustrated, or teetering on the edge of an episode and trying desperately to keep himself anchored in reality — not that Danglars can always tell which one it is. It is the effect that matters to him, because that is what he can see.

And he _can_ see the effect. He can see the skin flaking away at Gérard’s palms, the peeling lines around his wrists, the scratch marks on his fingers, the roughness of his nails, the blood on his torn fingertips, the red rawness of his hands. He sees him claw at them, tear and pick at the flesh with those ragged, painfully short fingernails, dig his teeth at them until he draws liquid. Yes, Danglars can certainly see the effect, and he does not approve. And Gérard does not stop. And his hands only look worse.

Danglars takes them into his, one day — Gérard’s reddened but still dainty and thin, Jullian’s broader and rougher (they had been soft, once, but that was a lifetime ago now) — and runs his thumb over Villefort’s knuckles.

“Look what you have done to yourself this time, child,” he murmurs, frowning.

Gérard seems to shrink into himself, hunching over a bit and darting his eyes away from Danglars’, but he does not speak.

“I will have to make you a pair of gloves, I imagine,” Danglars finally sighs out, “but that will not fetch us any money, now, will it? Not with all the fabric it will use. Perhaps I should wait until I am able to secure further funds.”

Villefort’s eyes snap up to him and then back away in rapid succession. “Sorry to be … b-burdensome.”

Danglars scoffs. “I have told you before, my boy, there is not much you could do that would render you a bother to me. Perish the thought; I am not quite so quick to complain as you might think, my dear Gérard.” He pauses. “However, if you wish to make my task a bit easier — I am going to ask that you spare a bit of mercy on your hands.”

Villefort does not offer an answer; he shifts uncomfortably at the request, as if hesitant to agree and humiliated by his own apprehension, and further avoids meeting his companion’s eyes. This, of course, is not the reaction Danglars hoped for; the man gives a harried sigh.

“Come now, Gérard,” he says, voice low. “Be a good boy and mind your father.”

Gérard makes a very high-pitched noise. His eyes go incredibly wide and he does not speak for the rest of the night. 

* * *

It is not often that Danglars entertains company anymore. The days fall short and the nights rise long, the sky lightens and darkens and heaves and pours, and Danglars remains generally alone aside from the company of his commisserator. He meets the other inhabitants — the _villagers_ , he refers to them disparagingly within the confines of himself and all the while ignoring the fact that he, by all definitions, counts among their numbers now — when he needs to purchase food or cloth or whatever measly imports they can collect, but he is far from a socialite. He panicked when he first arrived there; a townsperson had asked his name and he had drawn a blank and replied with “Jullian Caderousse”. It is uncomfortably ironical, being a tailor named Caderousse, but he ignores it to the best of his ability.

Luckily, his ability needs not stretch far; the people here only visit him when they are in need of his services, and he is sure that most of them have forgotten his name or do not care to repeat it. He thinks some of the children have a nickname for him, but he does not ask that they divulge it. He dislikes children on principle and avoids them. Danglars speaks with his customers and that is it.

“Pardon my asking,” a flea-bitten stick of a man rasps at him one evening, “but I was wondering who that fellow you have sitting in there is.”

Danglars glances nervously behind him through the doorway to find Gérard staring back at him like a startled animal. He hands the shirt back to the man and answers, “The husband of my sister, who passed away a few months back. The rest of their family … well. I imagine he would prefer I not speak of it. It is not easy to carry a job while plagued by grief, you see. He is helping me take care of the house. In my age, you know, it is not so easy to do that alone.”

The man stuffs the shirt between his greasy fingers and leans his head back some for a better look at Danglars’ proclaimed brother-in-law. “And his name is?”

“Gérard d—” Danglars hears the boy in question shift behind him and freezes. His thoughts follow suit. “D-Dantès!”

Gérard gives a low moan. Danglars bids his patron good evening and closes the door.

* * *

Danglars finds himself locked away in the darkness. The world is fuzzy, distant, slipping between his fingertips from where his hands remain bound behind the back of his chair, and the air hangs thick around him. He is aware, vaguely, that he is in a large, well-furnished dining room, but he cannot see the most of it; his eyes are fixed straight ahead of him into the inky blackness, but he can see the table in front of him from his peripheries, stretching out of vision to his right and left, dimly lit by silver candlesticks dotting the surface. He has not eaten for days.

“Jullian,” something whispers to the left of him, so close to his ear that he nearly cries out. He feels petrified to the spot but his neck still cranes around and he lays his eyes on the Count of Monte Cristo.

He does not _look_ like the Count of Monte Cristo. This is a man in his mid-twenties, tanned face dotted with stubble and dark hair swept back into some short, messy non-fashion. Tired eyes, thick brows, lips pulled back into a lopsided grin, showcasing glinting white teeth like those of a carnivorous animal; this man does not look like the Count of Monte Cristo, and he does not even look like the young Edmond Dantés, but Danglars knows that it’s him. His clothes are simple things unbefitting of a count, but not in terrible condition. A moment passes before Danglars notices the red spot on his chest as an ugly smear of gore. It is impossible, in this darkness, to tell if it is an injury on the Count’s part or something else; the smell of blood overwhelms him and he keeps his eyes, widening, focused on Edmond’s face.

“How long has it been, Jullian?” Edmond asks. His words slur together and his voice rises and falls unevenly. “You must be starving. Poor thing.”

Danglars’ body refuses to move, so the Count clicks his tongue and says, “Why does your countenance appear to me so shocked? We are friends, my dear man. I still do not understand why you did not allow me to accompany you to Spain; but that is all in the past now. You are quite dear to me. I would not like to see you starve. I do not imagine you are too fond of the prospect, either, my friend. Perhaps you have been seized by momentary paralysis? You old men are so vulnerable to the odd clutches of emotions. Well! You have no need to fear. I will cut your meal for you.”

Danglars attempts to speak — what he has in mind to say, he does not know — but finds that he is incapable of it. A strange terror surges through him. His body does not move. He is aware of the sliding of a knife across meat, and Edmond raises a fork to his lips.

He swallows something warm, slimy, and strongly tasting; he chokes the solid thing down and feels the juices dribbling down his chin. Edmond just laughs and wipes at his mouth with a napkin, which comes away red, mumbles some far-away-sounding words and presses the lip of a bottle to Danglars’ lips. His own body jolts but refuses to work to his will and it is all Danglars can do to tilt his head back and let the wine — oh, it has been so long since he has tasted good wine — flow down his throat. He is spluttering when Edmond mercifully allows him time to breathe again. The slide of the knife rings through his head again and he is presented with another piece of meat.

He can see it this time, and it is not what he had imagined. The large chunk of matter is stuck clumsily on the top of the fork and partly dangling, red and glistening like something uncooked, like something raw scooped out of a creature’s insides, but he can feel the heat from here. Bluish veins push underneath the film-like surface and suddenly he realizes that it is _pulsating_ , that the fluids are not dripping out — they are being _pumped_. It is then that he realizes that the dangling bit is skin. 

Human skin.

Danglars inhales sharply and prepares to scream, but his mouth only stretches silently open; the sound catches in his throat, expands, scratches towards it birth and then suffocates and dies, a forced miscarriage thrashing in his neck. The fork touches his lips and in a sudden collection of energy, Danglars spits the meat out.

A violent ringing floods his ears and the air turns deathly cold, like a corpse, like a creature rising to the surface of a frozen lake. 

“Ungrateful _pig_ ,” he hears Edmond say in a roar, in a whimper, in the splintering of crushed bones and the squirming of maggots mere seconds from bursting out of a gangrene-ridden limb, in the crack of a whip and the wail of a prisoner. “After all your sins, I still allow you to live, and this is the insolence you repay me with?”

The fork pierces through Danglars’ cheeks and he sees it. He watches the skin stretch and ripple underneath the metal ends until it peels back, watches it give way to a second layer of pink, watches the fork slide deeper in, forced by Edmond’s hand, until blood begins to form where it meets skin. He sees the fork drag down, scooping gashes of flesh out with it until he can see his own teeth on the other side of the wound. He still cannot scream.

Edmond slides his fingers through the curls of Danglars’ hair and clenches his fist. Suddenly Danglars is staring down into his plate and the mass of flesh is there, throbbing wetly against itself, and then he sees the pair of eyes atop it. They are not placed on the surface of it but melded into the gore, partially lidded and pale blue and staring deadly back up at him. He thinks he sees fear there, in those decaying irises, and he suddenly realizes who he is eating.

At that same moment, the Count uses his grip on Danglars’ hair to force him downwards, slamming his face into the plate with a dull, wet smack. Danglars finally manages to scream and he closes his eyes to brace against impact and then he opens them again and he is sitting upright in his bed, damp with sweat and shrieking Gérard’s name. 

As soon as he regains his senses, he snaps his mouth shut and takes in a deep, shuddering breath. He is not safe, not even in his dreams, but now he is somewhere familiar, and Gérard is —

Gérard is crouched on his stomach on the edge of the bed, propped up against an elbow and watching Danglars through the darkness with wide, blue eyes. He can see fear there and imagines that he must have thrown the poor man off of him in his sleep, but luckily Gérard seems to relax when he sees that Danglars has returned to himself.

“I…” Danglars begins to speak, slowly, and is cut off by the gentle touch of a hand on his elbow.

“I know,” Gérard says quietly.

* * *

The dreams continue, but not consistently; sometimes Danglars will go a week without one, sometimes they will repeat for nights on end. He learns to deal with their presence and oftentimes forgets them as soon as he awakens, and that is progress to celebrate, at least. Gérard dreams, too, and he can tell because the man mumbles in his sleep, cries out and thrashes and has to be shaken awake on his worse nights; still, at least he does sleep now. Danglars takes him to bed with him at night, because there is a notable difference in how they sleep when they are next to each other as opposed to when they are not, and the results are greatly in the former’s favor. On the best of nights, their moods are even relatively high when they go to lie down.

“The w-weather is clearing up,” Gérard says quietly one evening, and it is more than he has spoken in ages. “Getting warmer outside. We should … g-go on a walk, one of these days.”

Danglars is suddenly in the clutches of something much greater than himself. He cups Gérard’s cheek in his hand and kisses him on the mouth. 

Gérard makes a quiet, high-pitched noise, half gasp and half squeak, and Danglars pulls away. Their eyes meet and Gérard’s are wide, confused, and his cheeks are very red and Danglars remembers that the man in front of him is hardly in his right mind and, hell, has no expressed interest in men as far as he knows, and his stomach enters freefall and he curses himself.

“I. I apologize.” He coughs into his fist. “That was out of line. Forget about it. I am not quite sure what came over me.” 

* * *

“Danglars?” Gérard says quietly a few days later.

“You can refer to me as Jullian, if that pleases you,” Danglars replies just a bit too quickly. “What is it, my boy?”

“H-have you ever…” Gérard trails off and bites at the skin of his knuckles. “That is to say, have y-you ever loved another man?”

Danglars laughs rather painfully. “Why, of course. I have had friends before, you know.”

“No, not … not in that way. In the way that one … loves a woman.”

Danglars is almost shocked that Gérard does not sound _condemning_ ; he had always fancied the man a moralist, as would befit the crown prosecutor, but perhaps Gérard is not quite the man he thought he was — or lost that particular quality somewhere along the way in his march to madness and back — because he just sounds _nervous_. For his own part, he gives a similarly nervous little laugh and then frowns.

It is not like there is much point to lying, anyway. Not after all this time.

“Yes,” he says simply, “I have. Ages ago.”

“What was he like?” Gérard asks, softly, peering over at him with those searching eyes.

“He was a happy fellow most of the time.” Danglars sighs and rests his cheek against his hand. “He seemed content with most things, when I first met him — although I cannot say that he remained so. He was quite handsome, too. Foolish, perhaps, and a bit fond of liquor — but he was fond of me, too. Quite fond. I had never experienced anything like him before. I suppose I never will again, but that is likely for the best — it is not so easy, you know, being adored like that.”

“What ever happened to him?”

“Oh, who can say? I certainly cannot. He amounted to nothing, most likely.”

Danglars does not have it in him to say that Gérard’s son stabbed him to death years ago — it’s a strange sensation, the knowledge of that end. The last time Danglars laid eyes on him, Caderousse had been crying, had been begging him not to leave; Danglars wonders if anyone else ever cared for him so much. He cannot imagine so. Caderousse had said in those last few moments that Danglars needed him as much as he needed Danglars; he is ruined, now, so perhaps the poor man was right.

But it is far too late for that.

* * *

Gérard is quiet over the course of the next few days, even by his standards. He does not seem upset, necessarily, and that is the strange thing, because Danglars is accustomed to coping with Gérard in his various states of distress and this is altogether something different. He becomes silent and distant but there is no trembling to his meager frame, no fear in those tired eyes, just a slight furrow to his brow and a pursing to his lips. He is present, though, as far away as he seems; he replies to Danglars’ voice and drifts around inside their enclosed world.

“Jullian?” he says, days into this reverie.

“What is it, my boy?” Danglars asks, half-paying attention and only briefly raising his eyes.

“... Never mind,” Gérard concludes finally, turning back towards the window. “It was a … a foolish thought. Disregard it.”

Danglars hums. “Well, if you are entirely sure.”

One day, he knows, Edmond Dantès will return to them in the flesh. He will complete his vengeance; Gérard’s existence in this state is proof of that. It must be. Edmond Dantès will never forgive his trespasses. Soon, he will find himself further ruined — to the point of madness, even — and he will not have Villefort to lighten his burden then. Either that, or he supposes he will be skewered through and presented to poor Gérard, just like the rest of his unfortunate family. Danglars stitches threads through fabric and mourns himself.

* * *

Danglars resolved after the first time he kissed Villefort (and the thought of it still makes him cringe internally at his own misstep) to never do something so foolish again. It was a stupid decision; to this day, he is unsure of what exactly possessed him to do such a thing. It is not as if he was never attracted to the crown prosecutor before — he had desired him for years, far before the Count of Monte Cristo placed them together, although he had of course never made this known to the poor gentleman, had merely enjoyed the knowledge that Villefort, for all his reputation and status, surely trembled before him. That attraction had never disappeared, even when Gérard was presented to him in his frantic, mindless state, but then Danglars had other reasons to remain complacent; even now, the situation is different. He was attracted before, yes, but now he is _affectionate_ , and that is another thing altogether.

Better to allow his role to remain as it is. Better to leave Gérard unsullied — as unsullied as he can be, the way that he has become.

But Danglars is a creature of habit, and of human emotions (as hard as he has historically tried not to be). He falls victim to the same old feelings eventually.

It is just like before. They are setting themselves to bed, and Gérard makes an innocuous comment about gardening plans, or the neighbors, or some suggestion, some scheme he’s cooking up to make himself useful (as if Danglars would try to demand a _use_ from him). Danglars’ pulse quickens, his face warms, his throat tightens — he presses his lips to Gérard’s. His head buzzes.

And, just like before, the realization sets in after a second ticks by. He pulls away, slowly, and trains his eyes away from the other man’s face.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, swallowing thickly.

His words hang in the air at first, pulling it heavily down, twisting it painfully against Danglars’ chest. They are a centralized storm cloud and both he and his poor companion are helpless to it. He certainly imagines that they are, at least.

Gérard, apparently, thinks otherwise. 

His fingers, dainty and cold, wrap around Danglars’ wrist. They hold him in place, trembling, and Danglars’ breathing hitches. He forces his eyes anxiously to the face of the man underneath him, and what he finds is a far cry from what he had expected moments before.

 _Gérard is smiling._ It’s faint and a little sad, a mere ghost of a curve lingering around his pale lips, but its presence is undeniable. His voice comes in a quiet breath, but it, too, is distinctly interpreted.

“I would prefer not to.”

Danglars pretends for the night that Edmond Dantès will spare their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> i worked so hard on it please give it like, kudos or something, sobs...
> 
> writing music was sylvia by the antlers. i listened to it so many times that my brother started to make fun of me for it, so i switched to jeane by the smiths while editing.
> 
> https://gaspardcaderousse.tumblr.com/


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